I had a pretty good weekend in Palm Desert. My dad and his wife met me at the airport and surprised me by driving a Buick Park Avenue. The thing's a bloody apartment on wheels. A luxury apartment, at that. "Gee, Dad," I said sardonically, "what's the matter, the Lincoln wasn't ostentatious enough for you?" He brushed aside my comment as unworthy of a serious answer and explained the progression of cars I'd missed since I last visited in 1995. As we swung onto Highway 111 he pointed out all the changes to the little towns snuggled up beneath San Jacinto. Palm Springs was dying, he said with a hint of satisfaction, and Palm Desert was booming. More golf courses, more gated communities, more high-end galleries than ever before spread a veneer of glamour and greenery over the greyish white sand of the Coachella Valley. I watched the strange alternation of developments and barren desert in bemusement, and wondered why people try so hard to change everything about the places they live.

I tend to forget how much my folks thrive on the glitzy desert life since I only see them once every two or three years. They both wear extremely showy gold pieces, though admittedly their jewelry is positively chump change compared to some of the stuff people wear down there. Their clothes are low key, thank god. No cha-cha heels or polyester pants, just good, ordinary stuff from Eddie Bauer's and Nordstrom's. Their house is understated and elegant; my father has always had a wonderful eye for color and the perfect accessory. He pointed out the new shelves around the living room upon which he's put all the strange and interesting folk art figures we both love which I've brought back from my world travels. Looking around, it reminded me there were always curious art objects in our house when I was growing up. I'd forgotten the sitar we weren't allowed to play, the pair of carved cedar chests from China in the hallway, a ceremonial sword hanging on the wall. My father used to sign his paintings Pablo, a dry play on his and Picasso's given names. Now he's decorated their desert home with beautiful ceramics and textiles from Mexico. Everything, including their car, is quietly luxurious.

We idled away the weekend pleasantly by walking through the neighborhood, having lunch with my folks' friends, driving around looking at houses, and talking. My dad and I talked a lot. Mary Lou and I chatted some, and I love her dearly, but mostly I was conscious of trying to make up for lost time with my dad on this trip. I'm collecting his version of our life together. I know how I remember things, and it's instructive to get his perspective on it. Just being an adult has helped me grasp some of the external circumstances that created my homelife, but my version of what happened is naturally still skewed by the emotional interpretations of a child. We've both mellowed so much over the years. There was a time when I couldn't have conceived of us enjoying ourselves like this in light of the painful clashes of two strong-willed people. Some of his behavior inflicted serious psychological damage when I was growing up. I know I wasn't easy to raise. I'm grateful we've had enough time to gain some perspective on it. Time's a great asset. But time is beginning to run out. I saw how much my father has changed in only three years. He is growing frail, querulous, and less sociable. He is 70, and for the first time in his life he looks his age.

He made me promise to make a will. It's been worrying him, this grasshopper existence John and I lead with no assets to speak of and nothing more than a pension plan between us and Social Security. It's me he's really worried about, though he didn't say it. He doesn't want any questions about who inherits to arise if John should die. We talked about trust funds and stocks and the dispersal of property, and about our personal charities. He's always invested time and money in people. I donate mine to wildlife and conservation charities. He finds people endlessly fascinating, and animals just too much trouble. I feel exactly the opposite. It didn't matter, though; it wasn't grounds for an argument as it once would have been. Soft, purple shadows lengthened over the valley floor as my father and I worked through family history each day. We ate healthy meals out on the tiled patio, and listened to the lilting music of the fountain's waters, and tried to tie up loose ends without coming right out and admitting what is now clear to me: he will not be around much longer. He is 70, and he is not well.

I never learned to understand my mother. She died several years ago without once telling her children she had been suffering from breast cancer for seven years. My father only broke down and told us three weeks before she passed away, sorrow overcoming his natural reserve and fierce dislike of bodily weakness. We said goodbye as if to a stranger, without tears, and she barely looked at us. I think my father wants to make sure that doesn't happen again. On the way back to the airport, deftly maneuvering the ambulatory townhouse through the wide streets of the desert towns, he asked me to come see them again soon, in April or May. I plan on it.

But first, I'd better make my will. It's not much to ask, after all. I will also bring him the fair copy I made of the tangled genealogy charts he's collected. He'll get a kick out of that, I just know it.

Especially when he sees I've penciled in my pets as children. Hey, he may be 70 but it's never too late to made him laugh.